


Paint On My Fingers, Your Hands In Mine

by lipsstainedbloodred



Series: The Musician and The Painter [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Archived From Tumblr, Domestic, Fluff, Inspired by Bob Ross, M/M, Service Animals, Slice of Life, archived from cigarettesmokeandexyracquets blog, blind!andrew, deaf!neil, musician!andrew, painter!neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 09:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsstainedbloodred/pseuds/lipsstainedbloodred
Summary: He’s twenty one and he’s got paint on his knuckles the color of coal dust, flecks of white smudging up his wrist like tiny snowflakes, a dash of fire red splashed across the bridge of his nose where he pushed his glasses up.





	Paint On My Fingers, Your Hands In Mine

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted June 24, 2018 on cigarettesmokeandexyracquets

He’s twenty one and he’s got paint on his knuckles the color of coal dust, flecks of white smudging up his wrist like tiny snowflakes, a dash of fire red splashed across the bridge of his nose where he pushed his glasses up. Neil hasn’t painted like this since he was a baby, dipping his fingers into cold acrylic and smearing it across canvas like it means something. He tilts his head to the side and squints. There’s yellow ochre dancing on the edge of his glasses lens. He’s been careless with his glasses in a way he’s not careless with the art.  _Blue_ , he decides,  _it needs blue_. Blue and black transform into violent clouds almost indigo, splashing over reds and yellows of flowers and bushes. His paint brushes sit abandoned and lonely in their little clay holder, just out of his reach. He’s almost tempted to reach for them but he leaves them out of reach for now.

The door in front of him bumps open, his cat King worming her way around drying paintings and wet paint to walk across the canvas in front of his, tracking her paws over the surface. She looks up at him, the canvas under her vibrating with a purr. 

Neil snorts, covered fingertip to elbow in paints, and blows a raspberry in her face. “That was going to be my  _Mona Lisa_ ,” He says very carefully.

She tilts her head likes she understands and swishes her tail through wet paint before hopping into his lap and kneading at his thigh with her paws. Little claws press through the light linen of his sleeping shorts and he draws in a short little breath at the small sharp touch. Neil very lightly touches the top of her orange head with his forefinger. Once she settles down he pulls the canvas closer to smear over little paw prints and tail smudges. 

That’s the thing about painting, Neil thinks, or at least painting in this way. He can make no mistakes like this. Here it’s just his hands and the canvas, no brushes or knives to get in the way. Just heart and soul and the paints. There is no right or wrong here, not like with the paintings he does to pay the rent for this building.

The door bumps open again, wider this time with the frame of a man in the doorway. Andrew leans against the door frame, his service dog Orion a massive black void pressed against Andrew’s thigh. 

“Hi,” Neil says, a little too loud, to let Andrew know he sees him. Neil watches Andrew’s mouth and his own quirks into a little smile when he sees Andrew’s hands move at the same time his lips do.

“I was calling for you,” Andrew says. Neil can’t hear him, of course, his hearing aids are still laying on the nightstand next to his bed, but he can read his lips just fine. Andrew’s getting better at signing too. Soon he won’t need to speak and sign at the same time.

“I don’t have my ears in,” Neil says. He’s not sure if his tone is right, but the words come out sure and practiced. It helps that he didn’t lose his hearing until he was older, but he still doesn’t like speaking without being able to hear himself. 

“Of course not,” Andrew says, “Dinner’s ready.”

“Ten minutes?” Neil asks.

Andrew levels him a flat stare, “Five.”

“Okay,” Neil says. 

Andrew turns and leaves with Orion in tow and King hops up to follow him out. She leaves another trail of paw prints along the canvas and Neil sighs. He uses his five minutes to clean the majority of paint from his hands and arms and drops by his bedroom on the way to the kitchen to put his hearing aids in. 

Dinner is take out Chinese, served on the fancy plates that Neil inherited from his mother when she died. Andrew says that take out food tastes better on fine china and Neil has never bothered to argue with him.

Andrew is letting something smooth and jazzy play on the radio while he finds their chopsticks and Neil dumps half a container of beef and broccoli onto his plate. He leaves a little room where he knows Andrew will dump his own pieces of broccoli off on Neil. Neil’s never cared for vegetables, but he complains about them less than Andrew does.

“I’m sorry I didn’t hear you,” Neil says. Andrew grunts and points Neil’s chopsticks in Neil’s general direction for him to take. “I hate wearing them in the studio.”

“You don’t paint better with them out,” Andrew says, “Painting is sight.”

“Painting is feeling,” Neil says. The words are familiar, they’ve had this particular conversation a half dozen times before.

Andrew flicks a piece of fried rice at him and misses. They take their plates to the table and sit facing each other. Orion shifts in his spot under the table to press against Andrew’s foot. King places her paw on Neil’s leg to beg for scraps but Neil just shoos her off. 

“I’ll leave them in when you’re home, if that’s easier,” Neil says.

Andrew shakes his head, “I can come find you. You’re never far.”

Neil smiles and hides it by shoving a piece of beef in his mouth. 

“You’re smiling, aren’t you,” Andrew says, scowling, “stop it.”

“I’m not,” Neil lies through a mouthful of food.

“You are,” Andrew says accusingly, “I can hear it in your voice.”

Neil snorts.

“Disgusting,” Andrew says and shovels some rice into his mouth.

Neil does the washing up after they’ve finished their dinner while Andrew puts away the leftovers. It’s easier for Andrew to find things if he knows where he put it. Neil tries not to move things around in the shared spaces like the kitchen or the lounge or their bedroom. Andrew has no sight at all in his left eye and only a minimal amount in his right courtesy of a car crash that killed his mother and almost killed him when he was sixteen. It’s not a hardship though, remembering to put things back in order; Neil’s always liked for things to be organized and put away.

“I need to walk Orion,” Andrew says, “do you want to go?”

Neil wants to finish his painting but his back and knees are stiff and he hasn’t left the apartment for two days. Also he really just wants to spend time with Andrew. “Sure,” He says.

Andrew nods and points Orion toward the door for his vest and harness. Neil wishes they didn’t have to use the vest, but more people ask to pet Orion if they leave it off of him. Andrew sits at the bench by the front door and lets Orion bring him his shoes so he can give Orion a treat. Neil slips on his own shoes and follows them out the door to the elevator.

They make their way out of the apartment building and to the park a couple of blocks over. It’s pushing past eight in the evening and the sidewalks are thin. They pass a couple with a baby and a group of teenagers on their way to the park. Neil lights a cigarette while they walk to pass between the two of them. 

At the park Andrew finds an empty bench and lets Orion out of his harness to run for a bit. Neil takes the seat next to Andrew and watches Orion run circles around a tree and then back to Andrew. He presses his nose to Andrew’s knee and then takes off again and the cycle repeats. 

“What were you painting?” Andrew asks after a long silence, their cigarette long burned out though the smoke still clung to the space between them.

“Just finger painting for fun,” Neil says, “Clouds and flowers. King walked over it a couple of times.”

Andrew places his hand in the air, palm up between them. Neil gives Andrew his hand. Andrew runs fingers over Neil’s palm and up past his wrist to his elbow and back down. He scratches at a piece of reddish orange paint still stuck to the base of Neil’s thumb. “You’re still covered in paint,” Andrew says.

“I did a poor job washing up,” Neil admits.

“You always do.” Andrew brings his hand up to Neil’s face and dances his fingers over the scars on his cheek to the bridge of his nose and back down his jaw. “Paint here too.”

“I think there’s some still on my glasses.”

“You’re a mess.”

“What else is new?”

Neil huffs a laugh and catches Andrew’s wrist before he pulls his hand away to kiss his palm.

“Sap,” Andrew says, making a face, before pulling Neil in to press their mouths together. 

They kiss while the sun sets, until Orion gets tired of tormenting squirrels and takes his harness into his mouth and presses it against Andrew’s hand so they can go home. Andrew straps Orion back in and they walk home with the moonlight pouring silver over the streets and setting the world into rich tones of black and blues. Neil’s always liked the blues.

At home they take turns getting ready for bed, Andrew first and then Neil. Andrew tells him to wash the paint from behind his ears and Neil laughs but he does a much better job at getting the paint off of himself the second time around. They go to bed with the window open, though Andrew can’t see the moonlight streaking in through the opened curtains and Neil can’t hear the occasional car rumbling by with his hearing aids sitting on the night stand next to him.

At night he dreams in silence of blooming orchids in pink and purple set amongst a pthalo blue backdrop. The orchids give way to the mix of cadmium yellow and alizarin crimson of trees in autumn, until that crimson burns its way into bloody knuckles and a gold soul in the shape of Andrew Minyard. And he smiles.


End file.
